


Taqi

by justalittlegreen



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Biting, Bottom Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Canon Compliant, Claiming, Fucking, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani and Nicky | Nicolò di Genova are in Love, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani is an Incurable Romantic, M/M, Oral Sex, Ritual, Switch Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Switch Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Top Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, foot worship, you really think they stay fixed as top and bottom over the course of a millennia?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28702989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justalittlegreen/pseuds/justalittlegreen
Summary: After the battles and they're still around, Yusef and Nicolo come home to each other in a ritual they've honed over centuries.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 40
Kudos: 165





	1. the coming-home ritual

When they return to the abandoned fortress, filthy and exhausted, Nile is already waiting for them, a new fire in the hearth. Joe notes the cauldron suspended over it with gratitude. Nile unwraps a protein bar for each of them before anyone speaks, and they eat, Joe grimacing at the taste. Nicky hands his over wordlessly, trading Joe's peanut butter for his chocolate. Much better.

Nile stuffs the wrapper in a sack, not looking at them. "Andy'll be back tomorrow," she says. "You two, uh, going to do your thing?"

Joe smiles wearily, heading for the stove. "Yeah," he says, dragging a hand over Nile's shoulder as he passes her. "Thanks for getting the water started for us. That was very kind of you."

"Well, kind's part of my brand," Nile jokes. Nicky offers her a chuckle, then heads for the room he and Joe have been using, returning with something in his fist, which he hands to Nile. "You've been incredibly patient, and you haven't had a thousand years to get used to us," he says. "I hope there's something on there that can fill your ears better than, uh -" he grins impishly in Joe's direction. Joe, who is testing the temperature of the water and bent halfway into the fire, doesn't notice.

Nile takes the headphones and the mp3 player with something like glee. "This is an old one!" she exclaims. "This is some vintage Ipod shit you - " she pauses as Nicky cracks up. "Right. Old is relative," she repeats, as she's done a thousand times since meeting them. "Well, if it still works," she shrugs. "I appreciate it. I really do."

"The feeling is mutual," he says. "We forget that not everyone has had a few centuries to grow accustomed to us." Andy had never shown any sign of having overheard them, though they'd often only had a goatskin separating them after a mission. Booker spat his share of outrage and disgust the first time, until Andy had hauled him off for a polite discussion about group etiquette that seemed to involve more punching than discussing. They'd had no reason to hide since.

Nile sticks the headphones in her ears, powering it up and grinning at Nicky. "You don't have bad taste for a guy who probably grew up on nothing but hymns," she says.

"Mass, actually," he replies, but Nile is already lost in it, closing her eyes and shaking her head in time. He hears the tinny wisp of TLC leaking from the wires and heads for Joe, humming, _Don't go chasing waterfalls_ under his breath.

*

The ritual emerged over centuries of battle, but became more and more important as the wars got smaller, the jobs more personal. It became a way to re-enter the world of peace, for a moment, a place none of them felt quite at home, and sometimes felt reluctant to return to. Nicky grabs a metal pail and dunks it into the cauldron, filling it with hot, but not boiling water and carries it carefully to their room.

Before a mission, Joe lays out several white cloths on their bed, folded and waiting to greet them when they return. They're replicas of ones they've used since the very beginning with each other, and though they wear out frequently - every ten years or so, they need replacing - Joe is glad they haven't stopped making these thin towels, the kind that once made flour sacks. Nicky puts the pail down on the stone floor and feels Joe's arms wrap around him from behind, the soft press of his beard against Nicky's stubbled neck.

"You want to go first?" Joe's voice is soft, almost a whisper. Nicky cracks a smile, running the tips of his fingers over Joe's forearm, streaked with dirt and dried blood.

"Never," he answers, raising Joe's hand to his lips and kissing his knuckle. "Come on, you."

Joe kisses his cheek and steps around him to the other side of the bucket, hands at his sides. Nicky drops to one knee and unlaces his boots, Joe resting a hand lightly on his head for balance as he steps out of one, then the other, letting Nicky peel his socks off. Nicky lifts one of Joe's feet to his knee and dips a cloth into the pail, squeezing it out and wincing at the heat before bringing it to Joe's foot. Inch by inch, he scrubs and rinses, until Joe's foot is clean. He lays another cloth on the floor for Joe to stand on, then works his way from feet to ankles, rolling Joe's pants up to his knees until he can't roll them any further. 

Joe is relaxed but still as Nicky undoes his pants and helps him out of them and works his way up each leg. By the time he slips his warm cloth-covered fingers between Joe's cheeks, Joe's hand hand has begun to clench and twist in his hair, more grip than balance. Nicky wraps his hand in a fresh, hot cloth and strokes Joe's cock in a more-than-just-washing sort of way, but neither of them gets too distracted to finish. Nicky continues, lifting Joe's shirt over his head, scrubbing every last trace of the battle from Joe's skin. By then, the water is cool enough to tip a bit over Joe's head, letting Nicky work his fingers through his hair, down to his scalp. _Mine, mine, mine._ The word repeats in his head like a holy chant as he finishes by taking Joe's hand and kissing his palm before putting it to his own heart. Joe holds his place, but blows Nicky a kiss across the space between them. Nicky frowns at him like he's caught him winking in church.

Nicky wrings out the soiled cloths and tosses them into a corner as Joe heads out to refill the bucket. When he returns, it's Nicky's turn to be undressed and washed. Joe's hands are steady and gentle. Sometimes, Nicky can't stand this part. Can scarcely force himself to hold still. His body was built to move - to run, to fight, to fuck. He forces himself to breathe slowly as Joe envelops his cock in a warm, wet grip, closes his eyes and tries not to think about Joe's mouth.

Joe studiously ignores his erection, as he always does, and continues working his way methodically up Nicky's hips, his stomach, back, shoulders, chest. It takes less water to wash his hair. Joe shows no sign of impatience, not a hint of rushing, but Nicky is nearly shaking with the effort it takes not to throw Joe onto the mattress. Finally, at a speed that's almost teasingly slow, Joe lifts Nicky's palm to his lips and presses it to his heart. They draw a breath together, exhaling slowly, counting off the seconds in their heads.

Before they reach ten, Nicky throws him. Joe throws out a leg to balance himself and kicks the bucket over instead, stumbling backward into the bed as Nicky leaps for him, scrambling over the puddle and the pile of rags to pin Joe to the mattress before he can get up, cupping Joe's cheeks in his hands and bringing them together for a bruising kiss. Joe thrashes against the bed, trying to get purchase under him, the instinct to fight still coursing through him, even as his back arches, his whole body reaching for contact, wanting to touch Nicky with every inch of him. He gasps for breath before Nicky covers his mouth again with his own, tongue diving into Joe's mouth. Joe answers by digging his nails deep into Nicky's back. Nicky splits his lip with his teeth.

Welcome home.

Nicky blessedly stops thinking. Their bodies take over in a violent dance of need; the only language their limbs have ever spoken fluently. They have long stopped surprising each other, but there is delight to be found in the way Nicky's body practically sings as Joe holds him down with a bruising grip as he swallows Nicky's cock, Nicky's taut fist in his hair. The way Nicky flips him before Joe can break him, pinning Joe's wrists under his back as he straddles his shoulders, swearing in a broken mix of Arabic and Italian, with a few Russian curses thrown in for good measure. The way he wrestles Joe to a hold with a foot on his neck so he can gently, tenderly, prepare him to be taken. More than once, they've brought each other to the edge of death like this. But never over.

Joe groans, broken and wild, as Nicky pushes two, then three fingers into him. "Nicolo," he gasps, spots flickering at the edge of his vision as Nicky's heel digs into his airway. He chokes, tries to breathe, wrests a hand free and grabs Nicky by the ankle, ready to break his leg at the knees. 

Only then, Nicky moves his fingers and Joe forgets his plan, shoving Nicky's foot to the side and taking a desperate, full breath before spitting, " _Basta, basta,_ I'm ready." Nicky pauses long enough to remove his hand and right himself as Joe pulls his knees to his chest and reaches for him. Bringing him back. Bringing them home.

Nicky takes him with a force that knocks his breath out, before sinking his teeth into Nicky's shoulder and roaring. Nicky's mouth is a fractured ramble of Italian curses, and some far older words as he works his hips against Joe's driving deeper and deeper, not even realizing that Joe's heels are at the small of his back, urging him on, until the words melt into a single endless repetition. _Yusuf. Yusuf. Yusuf._

He comes apart quickly, and without warning, but Joe wraps his arms around Nicky's back and holds him firm, letting him ride it out as Nicky finally lets go, trembling, his voice cracking over the syllables as his body finally wrings itself out, the fight draining from him. Joe kisses his sweat-broke head, murmuring sweetness and nonsense until Nicky moves to roll off him, lying on his side. He reaches a hand to Joe's hip, walking his fingers toward his still-achingly-hard cock, but Joe stops him. 

"How do you want me, _omri_?" Nicky's voice is frayed. "Let me bring you home."

Joe runs a finger over his cheek, down the edge of his jaw, his eyes full of love. " _Mi amor,_ how many times do I have to tell you that wherever you are, I am home?"

Nicky rolls his eyes and slowly crawls down between Joe's legs, looking up to lock eyes with the man who is all 

and more

and everything

and opens.


	2. reconnection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another ritual - this one less structured, but holy nonetheless.

Andy calls it "the change," which is supposed to be some kind of joke that Nicky doesn't entirely get, but Nile just nods and says, "mm-HMM" in that way that suggests it's something womanly. Smirks and knowing looks aside, there's a palpable anxiety among the group, a sort of realigning after the tectonic shift of losing Booker, gaining Nile, realizing they were going to lose Andy. 

The day after Booker leaves, Joe decides it's time to head somewhere warm. They always go somewhere warm after a job, somewhere so welcoming and gentle that even the weather is kind. He suggests Crete, the appeal of an island that's still half wild, but with a civilization that's at least as old as they are. 

Copley is, among other things, an excellent travel agent; they'll get at least a decade or two's worth of his identity, his ability to do things like rent beach houses with open terraces and gorgeous views of the water. He sets up Nicky and Joe in a house that feels comfortably old, all stone and tile. It's grounding, to see a rocky beach that's been around as long as they have, saved from various interventions over the years. He arranges for food, wine; a cloth-covered platter of fresh bread and a jar of local honey greet them when they arrive, hot and panting, having decided to take the last few kilometers on foot. Joe rips into the snack with obvious pleasure, closing his eyes and moaning around the soft, slightly charred pita.

"Tastes like battle bread," he says, holding out a piece for Nicky, who takes Joe's fingers into his mouth along with the food, watching the way lust trickles in to Joe's affectionate smile. "I think I baked something just this perfect over a helmet once."

Nicky rolls his eyes; the bread IS good, and the honey tastes like the flowers it came from. Later, they'll find Copley's had the place stocked with olives, cheeses, fruits, meat and fresh goat's milk and appreciate the gesture, but for now, there's a greater need at hand. Nicky strips bare, tugging off his leggings and socks before slipping on a pair of sandals and heading for the sparkling blue water. Joe calls something that's muted by a full mouth, but catches up before he hits the beach.

The water is refreshing, just cold enough to kick the hazy exhaustion that comes from walking in the sun. Nicky floats on his back, letting the waves carry him gently closer to shore. He can vaguely hear Joe splashing in somewhere near him and rights himself, kneeling in the shallow water, appreciating way the sea and sun conspire to make Joe's skin shine. He makes his way over, half crawling, half swimming through the waves that break over his head, until he finds Joe floating on his back. Nicky stands and slides his arms beneath him, catching, cradling, looking down with naked affection. Joe opens his eyes long enough to squint, then closes them, smiling, preening in Nicky's hold.

By the time they make their way back to the house, salt-streaked, sun-kissed, and unburdened, Nicky is starving. He explores the larder, pulling together the makings of dinner, while Joe watches him from a stool at the counter, grinning and occasionally licking honey from his fingers when he thinks Nicky's looking. They eat with their hands, scooping up soft mouthfuls of eggplant and grilled onions, slices of farmer's cheese with honey and bread. Joe pops an olive into Nicky's mouth and accepts one in return. Peaceful food, hospitality food. The kind of things you eat when you're being welcomed.

There's no rush about the evening, the way they slowly make their way to bed. Nicky wraps his arms around Joe as he does the dishes, sliding one hand up and one hand down, appreciating the low growl it elicits, answering it with a nip at Joe's neck. By the time the dishes are washed, they're both half hard, soft sighs adding to the sounds of the waves. Joe turns around and wraps his arms around Nicky, kissing him slowly, tasting like mint leaves and fennel seeds. There's a familiar hunger that starts to waken in Nicky, but he quiets it, sets it to the back of his mind. They've earned this. They deserve this.

Joe gets the message, too, half-dancing with Nicky down the hall to the small, but well-appointed bedroom, his hands wandering over Nicky's skin with no particular urgency, like he's reading a favorite book for the thousandth time, and all the pleasure is in the way the words on the page fit so neatly into the space in his head. There is no inch of this man he doesn't know deep in his mind, in the place where nightmares and lullabies live. Somehow, two old warriors have stumbled their way to a lasting peace, and even if he was technically the first to recognize it, it was Nicky who led him there.

"Nicolo," he breathes as they come to the bed. Nicky throws him easily, and Joe takes a moment to revel in the softness of the bed, his arm sprawled out in a welcome. Nicky joins him, letting himself be pulled into Joe's arms, their bodies meeting face to face in the middle of the mattress. Joe raises a thumb to Nicky's jawline and traces it, their eyes locked on each other. Nicky brings a hand between them, and Joe gives it a little slap, chasing him away, the, _Slow down, hayati, we have time,_ embedded in the gesture. He doesn't stop Nicky from kissing him, though, all stubble and tongue, his skin still salty. He sinks into it like he did the ocean, letting Nicky hold him through the waves, letting his hips rock against Nicky's with gentle but insistent need.

He doesn't quite surface when he feels the familiar curve of Nicky's thumb at his lips, but opens his mouth out of habit, out of need, out of knowing. He drinks in the sensation, the ridges and curves against his tongue. Somewhere else in his consciousness, the feeling of a loose grip on his cock emerges, demanding attention. He thrusts upward into the loose circle of Nicky's fingers, a muffled cry in his throat.

" _Amore mio_ ," Nicky says, his voice warm and raspy, the sweetname holding centuries' worth of whispered affections - Joe can feel the weight of them, the ghosts of all the names Nicky has ever called him, the feeling of Nicky at his back in battle, Nicky's mouth against his, his body, a rippling swell that breaks slowly, his jaw falling open, the vaguest approximations - _Nico - Ni -_ of the name that's held and carried him through a thousand deaths and more. 

He opens his eyes to the dark, makes out the outline of Nicky licking his palm with an exaggerated pleasure. Joe groans, sighing, running his palm over Nicky's ribs, his hip, muscled thigh. "How do you want me?" he whispers.

Nicky shudders slightly, thinking, then turns his hand to Joe and slides a long finger into his mouth. Joe nods, sucking greedily, giving him a preview, before releasing it and making his way between Nicky's sprawled legs. He wishes there were some small light - the moon isn't quite enough - so he could see Nicky's face as he draws him into his mouth, heavy and dripping, but the soft, urgent grunt from the head of the bed gives him everything he needs to picture it. He feels Nicky's hand descend into his hair, not gripping, just enough so that Joe knows he's there. Joe slides his hands under Nicky's hips, feeling muscles tense over his palms, grabbing and kneading what he can reach with his fingertips as he swallows Nicky to the hilt. A slew of curses in Italian is enough to make him smile, despite his full, stretched mouth. Curses are the juiciest bits of any language, and Joe loves them.

He pulls his head up, licks his lips as Nicky moans, thrusting his hips against emptiness, tugging at Joe's hair. "Soon," he promises. "Just tell me first - "

"For fuck's sake," Nicky interrupts, "Yes, you are the sun that wakes me every fucking morning, the - " he stops as Joe starts laughing. "What?" he exclaims, throwing his head back against the pillows.

"I was goin to ask," Joe says with perfect innocence, "if you wanted me to swallow it or save it for you."

There's a pause, and then Nicky yanks on his hair. "Swallow it," he hisses.

Joe ducks and catches Nicky's cock in his lips again and slowly works his way down, hollowing his cheeks until his lips meet the top of his fist. He hums tunelessly, feeling Nicky twitch at the vibrations, swallows hard, again and again, knowing the way Nicky likes to feel his mouth working against him. Joe knows it like a song, every half-gasp and stuttered swear, every twitch of his thighs until finally, the pause, the held breath, and then Nicky's falling, falling, and Joe catches him, swallows him down, greedy and reverent at once, hips grinding against the sheets as the night truly begins.

There is time. Nicky's breath slows to the pace of the ocean and Joe climbs back up, surfacing, letting himself be folded into Nicky's arms. There will be more, later. But for now, there is a warm wind, honey, and salt.


	3. the night before ritual

For other warriors, the night before the battle is the time to do whatever dance with death you've learned - to duck and dodge, to flee the thought, to regard it calmly, standing on a bridge you haven't crossed. In the time before, Yusuf spent the night before a skirmish praying on his knees with the others, muttering vows and promises, affirmations. If his death was the will of Allah, he would meet it gracefully.

Nicolo was a bargainer. He could swallow, even spit the rhetoric of the knights of St. John - death for the glory of Christ and the way of the warrior monk - but in the moments before the battle started, he always promised something - his future firstborn, a life of service to the church, hell, a virginity he no longer had to offer - in exchange for survival. The realities of immortality had done little to quash the habit; he simply shifted the terms of the bargain.

_Keep us together and I won't give up._

If you'd ask with whom he's negotiating, the answer wouldn't come in words, but a gesture - a casual cast of the hand, a glance heavenward, then down.

The ritual, like all the others, evolved over a slow trickle of wars and centuries, but its core is the same: an au revoir. Many of the jobs have them working together, but like the threat of death lives on every soldier's neck, the threat of separation threatens Joe and Nicky like a looming knife. Nicky's spent, in the scheme of things, only a relative handful of nights separated from Joe, dreaming of him - tortured, starving, alone. In those dreams, their subconsciousness' desperate attempt at an embrace leaves them both hollow when they wake. 

Joe has always handled separation better, at least on the surface; he comforts Nicky in their dreams, or tries to. He jokes, and plays at smiling. But there's a reason he always goes first when they come back to each other. He can't allow himself to want to be held until such a thing is possible again.

Nicky, on the other hand, never stops wanting.

_Keep us together and I won't give up._

Andy says that giving up only lasts a few years anyway; something will always call you back. Maybe it's the same thing Nicky prays to on the night before a job. Joe points out that it's usually the three of them who call her back when it's time to resume their work and she shrugs. _You two always wanted to be emissaries of your gods_ she says. 

_Some of us had to be_ Joe shoots back. _Not all of us could be appointed goddesses ourselves, boss._

That's the gift of having been born to fight; the world has yet to exhaust itself of the practice. There will always be another job.

The ritual of the night before doesn't have a definitive beginning, other than readying weapons, laying out and packing clothes, bathing. Nicky usually gets into bed first, letting Joe finish his final round of puttering. When Joe comes to bed, he doesn't turn the light out. This is what marks the ritual, what makes these nights different from all other nights.

Joe lies down facing Nicky, gazing at him with a kind of rueful fondness. "I'm getting too old for this," he jokes, and after a few centuries of rolling his eyes, Nicky has come full circle back to smiling at him when he says it. 

"You don't look older than the day I met you," Nicky says with a teasingly earnest confusion.

"That's because you've gone blind. I forgot to tell you. This is all just a memory you're looking at."

"Oh good," Nicky scoffs. "I'll be sure to remember that tomorrow when I've got your enemy in my sights."

Joe replies by inching himself closer, until their noses are nearly touching, and their faces are soft and unfocused. Nicky closes his eyes and breathes deeply, the scent of peppermint soap and the fennel seeds Joe likes to chew after dinner filling his head with a pleasurable buzz, like standing under a bell as it's rung.

"With any luck..." Joe says.

"...there won't be any killing," Nicky finishes.

It's the closest they come to prayer.

The barest trace of Joe's lips muttering against his pull Nicky forward, soft and sweet, a kiss that warms them both. Joe's hand slides up Nicky's back, pulling him in closer as Nicky wraps a leg over Joe's hips with a strength that might suggest impatience. Joe leans his head back, panting as Nicky's lips find his neck, his fingers pressing and kneading at whatever bit of Nicky's shoulder he can reach.

"Tease," Nicky mutters against his throat. Joe answers by running his fingertips down Nicky's spine to the small of his back and, with a quick jerk, rolls Nicky on top of him so he can reach one hand to the base of his skull, keeping the other where it is. His fingers work slowly, reverently massaging the tender spots as Nicky offers moans and shudders like gifts at his feet. There is nothing new under the sun or Nicky's skin, but theirs is an old, old song. Joe will sing it for as long as he's given. 

He drinks it in, heady with it, the sounds rippling through him, feeling them both go from soft to stiff, Nicky's hips working against him already, hungry and eager. Joe presses down firmly on his lower back to still him. Nicky swears in Arabic and bites him in frustration. Joe responds with a slap, appreciating, even with the energy of a fight building, the way Nicky's flesh moves in waves in the wake of his palm. Nicky hisses, and Joe does it again, feeling Nicky twitch against him, his cock beginning to drip.

Joe takes a slow, steady breath, consciously relaxing his muscles, trying to slow his pulse. The impulse to fight is so embedded in both their bodies, it's hard to untangle the urge to bite from the urge to kiss. They try, though. For this night, when they'll need all their brawl in the morning, they set the fight aside. Nicky stills his hips and whimpers into Joe's neck, getting the message and following. He's no less hard, though.

 _I know what you want,_ Joe thinks, spreading his legs and lifting his knees like a question. Nicky answers wordlessly, pushing himself up to kneel between Joe's thighs, catching the bottle of lube Joe tosses him without looking, and slicks up his fingers. Joe sighs at his touch, letting Nicky hook one of his knees over his shoulder, slipping a bent knuckle into his mouth as Nicky slowly opens him. Nicky breathes his name over and over, kissing the inside of his knee, reaching for Joe's free hand as two, then three fingers make their way inside him, his cock twitching at every tiny movement. There is a fierce instinct to push, to shove, and Nicky holds it back, squeezing Joe's fingers between his. Joe squeezes back, his mouth falling open, legs trembling.

Nicky doesn't have to ask, but he does anyway. "You ready?" He releases Joe's hand and grabs more lube as Joe nods.

"Ask for it," Nicky teases, unable to help himself entirely. Power has always been a moot point between them - a toy, a game, an instrument, something to harmonize with their existing melodies. That isn't to say Nicky doesn't enjoy the word _please_ in every available language when it waterfalls from Joe's mouth in a crash of pleading syllables. 

Joe doesn't make him wait or fight it, yielding to a babble of half-bitten words, sweat breaking over his chest and brow as Nicky eases his cock into the searing clench of Joe's body, muttering a litany of names - Yusuf, Ioseph - Jojo - a timeless cacophony that only means one thing:

_mine._

So it's that he settles on as he bottoms out, rocking against Joe in tiny thrusts that have him moaning in a stuttered rhythm, an _oh - ah - unh_ that sounds like a cross between a sigh and an exclamation. It lands like honey, Nicky answering it with a quieter set of sounds for Joe's left ear alone. 

There is one more element to this, the night-before. Nicky knows they're nearly there by the way Joe's fingernails are digging into his back, by the way he's trying to rock his hips back, chasing Nicky's cock every time he dares pull out an inch. "Nico - " he mutters. "Nico, I - "

" _Subito,_ " Nicky promises, reaching between them to circle the base of Joe's cock with his thumb and forefinger. "With me, _con mi, sì, sì, sì Yus -_ " he releases his hold and speeds his hand over Joe's cock as he comes apart, eyes closed and clutching, instinctive and needy, desperate, Joe's own climax like an ocean's echo in his head. He comes as close to death as either of them have touched in the moment they go blank and light. Sometimes, he swears he can feel a ghost of what Joe feels, like they do in their dreams, the barest essence of being filled and taken as he snaps his hips forward. 

He resurfaces to the sound of Joe's laughter, warm and low and studded with affectionate curses in multiple languages. Nicky rolls off him, boneless and sated, panting, as Joe reaches for rags and water. He cleans Nicky with a careful gentleness before rolling him onto his side and pulling him into his arms.

"At least we didn't break the bed this time," Nicky mutters, yawning. "I hate doing construction before bed."

The last thing he feels is the soft scratch of Joe's beard as he buries a laugh in his neck.


	4. safe. home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> with thanks to @lazaefair for the prompt!

There is a certain generosity that comes with the well-worn grooves of living together for hundreds of years. They're deep in Appalachia, headed for several houses that Andy swears are among the best they've got - they look like shacks on the outside, but given the lack of traffic, they've been able to fix them up on the inside over the years, and the well's never run dry.

"Just can't burn anything," Andy explains as they shoulder their packs through a dense, green forest. "This place gets watched from fire towers, though not much else. I guess they do it by drone these days."

"How do you stay warm?" Nile asks.

Andy shrugs, "We keep a decent stock of blankets."

Ahead of them, Booker and Joe snicker simultaneously. Without looking, Nicky reaches back and smacks Booker upside the head. Andy rolls her eyes. "Of course," she adds dryly, "Some of us prefer other methods."

Nile's glad she learned young how to hide a blush. They hike for a little over an hour before they reach a clearing, circled by old-growth trees, and Booker heads off the trail, shucking his pack as he goes. Andy and Nile follow. "Nicky," Booker calls, kicking through the underbrush, "You have the stove." Nicky pauses at the edge of the trail to retrieve a small burner from his pack and tosses it to Andy before giving them a nod and a two-fingered wave. Joe's already out of sight.

"They're heading to the water source?" Nile guesses. 

Booker snorts. Now it's Andy's turn to smack him. "Give it up," she admonishes. "You should've gotten over this a couple centuries ago."

"I did," Booker protests, grinning. "But with _cherie_ here, it's all newly amusing." He turns to Nile with a knowing smirk. "We let them go on...to eh - "

"Clear the place," Andy cuts in smoothly. "Make sure no one's waiting for us, no one's disturbed anything. We'll join them in the morning." Her face is completely straight, but Booker loses it.

"Oh yeah, they have to - they have to - test the integrity of the beds," he howls, slapping a thigh. Andy frowns at him, then decides ignoring him is the better path. She gestures to Nile to get their tent set up, and Nile, grateful for the task and the distraction, starts fitting poles together.

***

The cabin and the two outbuildings - the outhouse and what used to be a shed and is now a private bedroom - aren't more than a mile further up the trail. Nicky always holds his breath as they round the corner, certain that this will be the time they arrive to find it wrecked by a storm, a falling tree, a fire.

Today, though, is not that day. The house looks a little worse for the wear, and the porch is sagging in a way that looks a little treacherous, but it's solid enough under their feet. The rusty door is still on its hinges and creaks invitingly as they wrest it open. 

Inside is the solid pine floor Joe and Booker installed the last time they were here - thirty, maybe forty years ago. A bank of cedar chests lines one wall, as mouse-and-moth-proof storage for linens and doubling as cozy seating under the window. A thick layer of dust has settled over everything, which is to be expected, but the furniture is all wood and metal, and there's no sign of bears. Nicky slips his pack off his shoulders and stretches in the entry, hearing the back door clatter shut as Joe heads for the well.

It's warm enough to bathe outside, and Nicky follows, stripping off his hoodie and jeans as he goes, kicking his boots off. The grass - if it can be called that; it's really a meadow now - tickles his hipbones as he wades across the yard. Joe has pried the cover off the well and pulled up an icy bucket of fresh water. He studies it thoughtfully.

"Do you think it's safe, _tesoro_? Giardia was less of an issue last time we were here, and -"

Nicky grabs the bucket and tips it back, pouring the clear, fresh water in and over his mouth, letting it spill down his neck and shoulders. It's more than he can drink, but he keeps pouring, letting it bubble and flow out of his open mouth, swallowing what he can, letting the rest wash off some of the sweat and dirt. So what if Joe's glaring at him when he finishes, half annoyed and half aroused?

Nicky wipes his hand across his mouth and passes the empty bucket back, pretending to dry his hands on his wet thighs. "Tastes clean to me," he deadpans.

Joe lowers the bucket into the well without looking at it, a smirk playing across his lips. He draws it up quickly, letting Nicky admire his biceps working under the thin, clingy sleeves of his shirt. He looks into the bucket, contemplating it for a moment, and then dumps it over his head. Nicky laughs as Joe remembers he has clothes on, and that it doesn't have quite the effect that Nicky's stunt had on him. He drops the bucket on the ground and lets Nicky tear his shirt off, unbuckling his pants himself. Nicky draws up another bucket of water and sloshes it at him as soon as Joe's naked. It's not quite a water fight, since they keep willingly passing the bucket back and forth, but it becomes a game of one-upmanship. Joe tilts his head back and spits a stream into the air like a fountain, posing like a Renaissance statue. Nicky turns the bucket over his head and leaves it there, the handle clattering under his chin. They splash and scrub, and finally gather their clothes (and a few more buckets of water) and head inside.

Joe gathers sheets and blankets from the cedar chests, and the two of them make the beds in each of the three bedrooms - Andy will sleep in the woodshed - with efficient cooperation, tucking the blankets and fluffing the ancient feather pillows. Still naked, they throw the windows open to air the place out, and dust everything off. It's the price they pay for this blessed night of privacy - their end of the bargain is keeping up the pretense of needing a whole night to set the place up.

When Nicky comes downstairs after dusting all the bedrooms, Joe has filled a jar that once held moonshine with wildflowers and left it on the table. Nicky sighs a smile as he drops the rags into a bucket of water and heads into the living room. Joe is curled up on the window seats like a cat in a patch of sun, but sits up and holds a hand out as Nicky comes over. 

"So," Nicky says, pulling Joe to his feet. "Which one first?"

Joe looks up at him with a glint in his eye and says, "Are you too tired to stand, _hayati?_ "

Nicky shakes his head and slaps his thighs, as if to remind Joe of his strength. Joe grins. "Then I want you in the kitchen."

***

The kitchen, of course, for its lack of usable surfaces, its stone floor, and its rickety table - a good one to strike off first, while they have plenty of energy and strength. Nicky slips his arms around Joe's chest, waddling behind him and refusing to let go as they head in. It almost - almost - catches him by surprise when Joe swivels and slams him backwards into the doorjamb. The hit knocks the wind out of Nicky, making him grin as Joe whirls around and kisses him before he can catch his breath. His mouth is warm, sweet with familiarity. Nicky gasps again and again, reaching for air as Joe takes advantage of the moment to kiss his way down Nicky's neck. The lack of oxygen blurs Nicky's vision for a moment as Joe's hand circles his cock, and then it blessedly rushes back as Joe gets gingerly to his knees on the stone floor.

Nicky's hand finds its way into Joe's hair almost lazily as his mouth descends. Nicky works his hips in tiny thrusts, eager and needy. Later, they'll take their time. By the time they reach their own bed, they'll be slowly kissing and nibbling their way across vast expanses of shoulder, wrist, calf. This - this is a blessing. Almost perfunctory in the ritual of it. Nicky closes his eyes as Joe pulls off his cock long enough to mutter in a rough Ligurian, "Mark me already, you stubborn bastard. My knees are killing me."

Nicky laughs and spreads his feet, giving Joe the opening he needs to slip a finger between his cheeks, working it slowly over his hole, cursing himself for leaving the lube upstairs. The added sensation is just enough to work him over the edge, pulling Joe off by his hair as he streaks his chest and shoulders. As Nicky slumps against the doorjamb, panting, Joe runs a finger through the come on his skin and reaches overhead to mark the doorway with it. A blessing, of sorts. 

From there, they move through the house, taking turns. Nicky gets a spell on his knees, though on wood instead of stone. 

Out of deference to their comrades, the only bed they fuck in is their own, but leave their invisible mark in every entrance to the house - every window, every doorway. Their own baptism, their own sign to the angels of death - _pass over this house. Leave us in peace._

By the time the others arrive in the morning, it'll feel like home.


End file.
